Drawing her gaze to meet his, Eliza forced her lips to part, willing the words to slip past her fear. “Ben is… your son.”
The truth dispersed on a whisper, lighter than a fallen leaf fluttering to the ground. Eliza held her breath, waiting for her words to land with the force of the entire universe.
“Very funny.” Grant’s laugh sounded more like a bark, short and tense, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her joke.
“Grant…” Painfully, Eliza stepped toward him, although every self-preserving instinct told her to flee. From the guilt. The shame. The repercussions.
But she couldn’t. Especially when the flicker of realization blazed across Grant’s face. His features settled into a heart-wrenching mix of anguish, shock, and fear, leaving her winded like a blow to the stomach.
Oh, what she wouldn’t give to erase his pain—the painshehad caused.
Her legs trembling, Eliza took another step.
Grant stumbled backward, both hands raised. “Don’t.”
“Please, let me explain.” Tears blurred her vision as she tried to move toward him. Let her explain? As if that would somehow fix what she’d done. Her throat constricted, making breathing nearly impossible, let alone words.
Not that it mattered.
Grant had turned his back to her, crossing the driveway with long, rapid strides. He might as well be running away from her.
And Eliza couldn’t blame him.
She’d spent years protecting the ones she loved from the fallout of the truth. But now that she’d unleashed it, she feared the destruction would be even worse than she’d imagined.
* * *
By the time Grant pried his fingers from around the steering wheel, they shook uncontrollably.
Clenching his eyes shut, he leaned against the headrest, drawing in a desperate breath. But no matter how deeply he inhaled, his lungs wouldn’t fill.
His entire world had tipped on its axis; every emotion converged together, leaving him devoid of energy and the ability to think straight.
Or more accurately, the ability to think at all.
Hauling himself up the porch steps, Grant barely noticed his father reading on the wicker love seat.
“What’s the matter? Are you sick?” Setting his book on the side table, Stan uncrossed his legs, leaning forward in concern.
“Something like that.” Grant pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, noting it did feel warm.
“Have a seat.” Stan scooted over, patting the space beside him.
“Not right now, Dad. I—” In the middle of his protest, Grant’s limbs weakened, and he sank onto the plush cushion, hanging his head in his hands. He winced as a sharp pain pierced his left temple.
“Here, have some water.” Ice cubes clinked together as Stan handed him the tall glass.
Grant threw his head back, downing huge gulps, slightly invigorated by the hint of lemon and mint. After he’d chugged the last drop, he handed the glass back to his dad.
Stan smiled as he eyed the remaining chunks of ice and lemon wedge. “Feel better?”
“A little, thanks.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Try me.” Stan shifted in his seat to face his son.
